


A(Dress) in Mind

by shinkonokokoro



Series: Disguises Are Fun [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Crime, Crossdressing, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Involves crossdressing. As a disguise. And with the utmost of professionalism. Because that's how Sherlock rolls. Except John discovers he can't handle it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John sat and rather literally twiddled his thumbs, pausing every once in a while to realign the tapping of his feet and pluck at the fuzz on the duvet on the hotel bed.

Sherlock hadn't said how long he would be gone, but John had dutifully texted him the room number. His instructions had been rather explicit.

As soon as they had pulled up to the hotel, Sherlock had grabbed John's arm, just as he began reaching for the door handle. He'd leaned in close and whispered lowly into John's ear.

"I need you to follow the instructions I'm about to give you very precisely, John. Do you understand me?"

John had nodded, confused at the time. Confused still.

"Go into the hotel, standing as straight and tall as you can, swing your arms a bit, like a swagger. Go up to the concierge and lean over the desk, staring fiercely at him. Be intimidating, Ask him for a double—book it under a Mr. Wesson. Pay cash—I have enough; don't worry. Be brusque and curt with him. Then go upstairs, text me the room number. Wait in the room and do not open the door for anyone. When I get to the room, I will knock five times, pause, and then twice more so you will know it is me. Wait to shower until I get back.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock just glared at him. "Will you do exactly as I say?"

"Yes, of course. It's a bit strange, but I—"

"John. Do it. Now go. Remember: let no one in save me. Drenkle's men could be anywhere." He shoved a handful of cash into John's pocket and all but pushed him out the door.

So John had done as asked, waiting for Sherlock to come back, worrying quietly. He checked the windows even though they were on the fifth floor, drew the drapes, and made sure the door was bolted. Then he pushed the bed back into the corner so it was away from the windows, and kept himself out of any possible line of sight.

He jumped at the first rap, counting to five, hearing nothing, then two more sharp raps. Undoing the lock quickly, he pulled the door open, jaw dropping at the haughty woman that swept into his room, dumping shopping bags on the bed.

"Shut the door, John!" Sherlock's voice hissed as he quickly circled the room, eyes darting around,

"Sh-sherlock!" John closed the door by feel, staring at what must be his friend underneath the cream blouse, loose slacks, sleek flats, sharp blazer, and long dark curls. "Oh my god. Is that really you?"

Tossing his head, Sherlock's voice coming from that image was entirely incongruous. "Don't be an idiot, John,. We're being hunted. They're looking for two men, one tall and dark-haired, the other coming to about the man's eyes and a dingy blonde. Therefore, we need to not look like the people whom they are pursuing."

"So you dressed as a woman?" John choked.

"I've been told I am adept at pulling off women's clothing," he replied stiffly.

"Oh?" John felt his brows go up. "By whom?"

At this, Sherlock dropped his gaze, cheeks pinking, and he mumbled words that sounded vaguely like "Mummy and Mycroft...Christmas...school play."

John grinned. "So me? My disguise is being... Mr. Wesson?"

"Yes." Sherlock rifled through the bags, pulling out a box of hair dye. "This first." Tossing it to John, Sherlock removed the blazer and rolled up the sleeves on his blouse.

"Black?" John protested.

"To the bathroom," Sherlock ordered. Placing a towel around John's neck once he had knelt in front of the sink, he grabbed the box and made swift work of John's hair, his long fingers massaging his scalp. Sherlock talked as he worked, explaining how their disguises would help them search for Drenkle and remain in the city. They would go to the latest victim's funeral tomorrow and question the family and friends.

"You make a striking woman," John murmured, lulled by the head massage.

The fingers stopped abruptly, and he glanced up at the mirror to see Sherlock's surprise fading into a sort of smirk.

"Geeze. Sorry. That's weird."

"It's fine, John," Sherlock murmured. "Let that sit for 30 minutes. Now. For you. I've got you a fresh set of clothes for Mr. Wesson. A suit for tomorrow and slacks and dress shirts for other days."

"So basically dressing like you."

"If you wish. And you need to be taller."

"I can't just grow on command."

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "I've got you lifts. You'll be about two inches taller. Maybe three. Nearly my height."

"Wow."

"Yes. Now you won't be at the general vicinity of my ears when we stand side by side. I shall only wear flats. A woman my height would be self-conscious enough as it is; she would not want to be taller by wearing heels."

John hummed, eyes shut as Sherlock went on about questioning the family and methodology to make it subtle. The killer might be there. He liked to see the effect his work had on those close to the victim. Sherlock was going to be a friend from uni—Susan.

"Are you wearing make-up?" John blinked at him.

"Yes. Most women do."

"Oh. Right."

"Yes, John. Rinse your head. Or shower. But make it quick. I need to tell you more about Matthew Wesson, Susan's husband.

Buttons half undone on his shirt already, John squawked after Sherlock's retreating back. His friend only laughed.

By the time he was done examining his clean dark hair (eyebrows too), Sherlock was in the bed. Face as usual and dressed in his habitual night-time wear, he was looking through some papers while John pulled on pants and flannel bottoms. "Not a bad job on my hair, Sherlock. Is yours a wig?"

"No. Too obvious. Extensions. Get in bed."

"What?"

Sherlock fixed him with a look, closing the file. "It's a queen, John. There is room for two."

"Yes...but..." He felt his cheeks go hot.

"Get in," Sherlock repeated irritably.

John grumbled and stalked to the bed, shoving back the sheets to slide between them. "I'm warning you now—and not apologising for it—but I may end up on your side by morning."

"Matthew Wesson is a hard man, a doctor, so it shall be easier for you, only child, and angry at the world. His father made life difficult for him after his mother passed young. You'll scowl a lot. He married Susan six years ago. They're in love, despite arguing frequently," Sherlock said, lacing his fingers.

"Not unlike us then..."

"Susan is proud but emotional. An interior designer—giving me the freedom to ask for a tour of the house—and owns her own firm. Small, but well-to-do. She is proud of her husband, but frustrated with him for wanting children she cannot have."

"Wow..." John sighed, scooting down the bed to put his head on the freshly plumped pillow. "You can be that."

"Of course, John."

"And you just made this up? Or is this some kind of contingency plan?"

He felt the bed move as Sherlock shrugged. "We needed disguises. My brain provided the detail. Good night, John. You're falling asleep."

"'Night, Sherlock." He heard Sherlock hum in response, the light flicking out behind his eyelids, and then he was asleep.

John woke, the next morning as usual at 6 A.M., his arm curled around Sherlock's waist, one leg pushed flush against his curled form. He swallowed his groan and arched away from the other man.

"Good morning, John."

"Sherlock!" He pulled away quickly, pressing his lips shut against the apology forming in his throat. He said he wasn't going to apologise for his propensity for curling around the nearest object in the bed. Flat on his back, John flopped an arm over his eyes.

"Relax, John. It was an exercise as much for me as yourself. If we're to be playing married, then we might as well be comfortable touching. This was easiest."

This time John did groan, swinging his feet to the floor. "It's too early for this..."

"Get dressed, John, and pack your things. Your clothes are laid out over the chair, shoes beneath. From now on," Sherlock said as he rose, "I am Susan Wesson. Do not slip up." He pulled the baggy t-shirt off, dropping it on the bed.

John rolled his eyes, stumbling towards the bathroom. "I won't mess up, _Susan_."

Sherlock smirked, picking up a lavender blouse and sliding it over his shoulders.

By the time John finished in the bathroom, Sherlock was dressed and leaning over the dresser, towards the mirror make-up in hand. John wandered closer, fascinated as Sherlock swept the brush over the palette before highlighting his naturally pale cheeks.

"You never watched your girlfriends put on make-up, John?" Sherlock asked, voice tinged with amusement as he met John's eyes through the mirror.

"What? Yes... I just... how do _you_ know what to do?"

"Theatre, John. It's not terribly difficult. All one needs to do is highlight and shadow the contours of the face. It's like painting."

John shook his head. "You're amazing...!"

"Finish getting dressed, John. We're going to breakfast."

"We are?"

"Mm. We are Matthew and Susan Wesson. They go to breakfast. Therefore, we go to breakfast. When we check out, John, I want you to complain to the concierge about the room being too small, the bathroom dirty. Think of something. We'll be staying somewhere else tonight."

John nodded, pulling on the fine linen shirt. As expected, it fit him perfectly.

"Also, do something different with your hair."

Sherlock quickly packed a small purse, setting it on the bed while he came to John and straightened his collar more to his liking before doing up his tie quicker than John had ever been able. Smoothing the fabric across John's shoulders, Sherlock searched John's face, smirked, and then dropped a kiss to his cheek. Smirked some more when John flushed.

"This is going to take some getting use to..." he muttered, sitting to pull on the shoes.

"Acclimate quickly, John. Walk back and forth half a dozen times."

"What?"

"Get used to the shoes. How many times are you going to make me repeat myself today..."

John sighed and did as instructed, listening to Sherlock rummaging around packing. John stumbled a bit with the extra height, but adjusted by the third pass. He packed his own belongings with military efficiency and then slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Ready, darling?" Sherlock— _Susan_ asked, voice soft and husky, like she'd smoked too many cigarettes.

John whirled. _Susan_ had shades on, a floral scarf looped around her neck that complimented the lavender blouse, one hand gripping the handle of her suitcase, the other canted on her hip. "How many times is too many to be astonished in a twenty-four hour time period...? Honestly, Susan..." John grinned.

Sher—Susan grinned back. "Let's check out then. And get breakfast."

It took John well through breakfast, a stroll, checking in at their new hotel, and the cab ride over to the funeral for John to get used to Sher—Susan's husky crooning voice, swaying walk, haughty affectionate manner, and physical closeness. It helped if he tried not to see Sherlock beneath Susan. See the woman not the man. The problem with that was that John found Susan ridiculously striking. Not his usual type at all. But still... Sherlock was attractive enough as a man, if he could admit it... He shook his head as they walked up to the house. Susan cast him an arched look and John nodded to say that he was fine.

Susan knocked and became appropriately red-eyed and weepy, shocking John _again_ , and greeted the woman who answered. "I heard about the funeral for Cassie! I'm Susan; this is my husband, Mattie. Cass an I were good friends in uni. I'm so sorry for your loss, Morgan."

"Susan?" The woman—sister? looked confused but accepted Sherlock's warm hug. "Cass never mentioned you..."

Susan ducked her head and flushed as she pulled away. "We...we fought last time... She..." Susan sniffed loudly and brushed away a tear. "I'm sorry! It was a stupid argument..."

The woman, Morgan, smiled kindly. "Please. Come in."

Susan smiled gratefully, linking her arm with John's. "Thank you so much." She lead him through the door and guided him to a seat. "Sit, darling."

"Have I told you you're amazing?"

"Not for an hour and a half."

"Jesus... There's a BAFTA performance right there."

Susan smiled, pinching the back of his arm. "Careful, Mattie."

John scowled, but took the hint. Sh—Susan looked around the room at the people, and John could fairly see him cataloguing their lives. So while Sherlock watched everyone else, John watched Sherlock. Susan. "Is he here?" John asked quietly while Susan pretended to examine her nails.

"I don't know yet, Mattie."

"Mattie? Really? _Must_ you call me that?" he groused.

Susan grinned. "There you are. My husband. The grinch."

"I hate you." John straightened and folded his arms across his chest. He shifted again and then stripped his jacket off, hanging it neatly over the back of his chair. It was hot in here, despite the linen shirt.

"Such a lovely shirt on you, darling," Susan said, brushing her fingers across his shoulder. "You always did look nice in blue."

John grunted, not even surprised when he saw that Sherlock's nails were painted a pale pink. "You sure pull out all the stops, Su."

She smiled, all teeth "You know me..." Then she turned to the person who sat on down on her other side and chatted away—fashion, dogs, children, everything. Susan was a brilliant conversationalist.

"Hey, mate. You're at a funeral. I understand you're supposed to look grim, but don't look _so_ stroppy..." A voice said to John's right as a man sat.

"Sorry. Wife's friend. Don't want to be here," he grumbled, looking at his watch. If Sherlock could do it, so could he...

The man grinned briefly and held out a hand. "Spencer Tavis. Friend of Cassie's from work."

John nodded. "Matthew Wesson. Su's a friend from uni."

At the mention of her name, Susan turned away from her new friend and extended a hand. "Pleasure."

"All mine," the man said, eyes roving.

John cleared his throat, brows dipping in.

"Mattie!" Susan said playfully, kissing him on the cheek again. "Sorry, Spencer was it? Mattie's just a bit possessive. But I'm afraid I am taken." She took her hand back, exchanged a few lines and then went back to talking to the woman.

"I can't even believe her..." John muttered.

Spencer laughed. "Some woman you've got there."

"You're telling me."

Spencer nattered on and finally everyone quieted as the funeral started. John eyed Sherl—Susan out of the corner of his eyes, watching with a sort of awe as she cried quiet tears, dabbing at her eyes in such a way as to not smear her make-up. He tried not to think about how Sherlock crying was a better performance than everything he'd seen on the telly lately.

"Mattie, darling, stop staring," Sherlock whispered in his ear, leaning against his shoulder.

John jumped. "Jesus..."

"I didn't know you found me so fascinating," Susan murmured.

John stiffened.

Susan patted his leg and then shifted back, a smug tilt of his lips.

John scowled.


	2. Chapter 2

The service finished and Sherlock—Susan dragged John up and pasted a soft smile on, circling them through the other guests. She chatted casually, including John who played the role of a disgruntled husband perfectly.

"Su... I need a breath of fresh air," John said finally, the humdrum monotony of the tearful apologies and condolences strangling him slowly. She nodded and gave him a peck on the cheek and sending him off to the back porch. John sank onto the steps and dropped his head into his hands, taking in slow deep breaths. He let himself breathe. When he finally stood, fifteen, thirty minutes later, he turned and gave a low shout, Sherlock standing there silently. "Jesus! Sh—Susan! Don't _do_ that to a bloke!"

"Are you alright?" Susan asked. Though the eyes and the set of her mouth were Sherlock's.

John sighed. "I'm fine. I just... this is too much, you know?"

"Not comprehensively." She held out a hand, the gesture completely feminine.

"How do you do that..."

"We can leave. If you wish." The head head tilt was Sherlock's

John nodded. The headache had increased from a tremor to a rumble between his eyes, and he needed... He didn't know what he needed, but he needed to be away from here. "Do you have everything you need?"

Susan's eyes glittered as a thin smile floated across her face. "Yes. Drenkle was here, briefly. I know what he looks like now. We can get him. With his pattern, he won't take another victim until after the previous one is buried. He doesn't know we were her either. You've done goo."

"Thank God for that," he retorted wearily.

"We're going. Did you want to stop for dinner?"

John shook his head. "Let's just eat at the hotel please." Sherlock nodded and gripped his arm, John steadying with the contact. He waited in the cab while Sherlock jumped out and bought food at a café. They made it safely back to their room, John collapsing on the bed, Sherlock setting the food down and immediately pulling John to his feet.

"Hang your clothes. They'll get rumpled."

John groaned and allowed Sherlock to pull the jacket off of him, hanging it neatly. Sherlock returned, undoing the buttons with nimble fingers. John grabbed Sherlock's hands, stilling them.

"John?"

"This is... I can't do this. This is too strange. I can't."

Sherlock stepped away, nodding once before stripping off the clothes, becoming Sherlock again. If slightly more naked than John was comfortable with.

"The make-up. Get rid of it."

Sherlock nodded and vanished into the bathroom while John hurriedly stripped off the rest of his clothes and pulled on a fresh pair of flannel bottoms, sighing as he felt the stress ease out of his spine.

"Better?" Sherlock drawled as he exited the bathroom in a pair of flannel bottoms as well, towelling his face dry.

John sat on the edge of the bed. "Oh. Much."

"Did it bother you that much?" Sherlock tilted his head, eyes boring into him.

He shrugged and fell back, bouncing slightly. "I guess it did. It...it wasn't _you_ , you know?"

"I do not. Please explain."

"You're Sherlock. Susan... Susan, while very attractive, is not real, nor is she in any way you. She's fake. She's... I don't know." John dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I don't know what it was, other than it wasn't you. It was winding me up the whole day."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You're saying you prefer me, in my natural appearance, over this faux persona, Susan, I've created as an alias?"

"Of course!" John leaned up on an elbow, catching the flicker of surprise that crossed the other man's face. "It's..." He waved a hand at him, words suddenly failing as he realised just how true it was. "It's _you_."

"Yes. Of course it's me."

"No! That's—Augh. You are Sherlock. Not Susan. I know the difference. I...I got very confused all day long trying to see only Susan, but missing _Sherlock_ , and then seeing glimpses of Sherlock in _Susan_ , who wasn't you. And I couldn't... It was just strange. And uncomfortable. And I don't like it."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why! I just didn't! I don't know how to explain it to you, Sherlock, but I've had enough, once was fun, but now I'm done."

"We still have things to do tomorrow. And I need you with me."

"You need me with you. Well, you're so brilliant, I'm sure you can do fine by yourself."

"But..."

John blinked at Sherlock's sudden loss of words. "But what," he prompted more gently.

"I need my blogger."

"No. You just need someone to be clever in front of."

Sherlock frowned. "That's not... No. No, that's not it. This... This is important to you."

"What are you going on about?"

Sherlock strode over to him, staring down, examining every crease in John's face. "What are you telling me?" he muttered.

"Sherlock," John protested, rolling away. "I'm not some crime scene that you can just tease the answers out of. There's nothing..."

"You're not telling me something, and it's something I don't understand," Sherlock said urgently.

"Oh for..." He sat. "Listen. It's like... you go to the morgue, expecting to find Molly and dead bodies. Instead, you find a crime scene with a whole bunch of feet arranged to spell the word 'kill.'"

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"Yes, it's very exciting. However, when you get closer, you realise the feet are all labelled with identification cards on the toes, and the killer dropped his wallet by the door." He almost laughed at the way Sherlock's face fell and turned into a scowl. "Yes. You see? It's very exciting at first, but quickly it turns into the dullest thing around."

Sherlock sighed and folded his arms across his bare chest. "Very well. I see your point. However, I would like you to keep on until we've caught Drenkle."

John nodded. "Yes. Just... When we're in the room, we have to be John and Sherlock. Okay?"

"Yes, John."

"Great. Well, I'm exhausted and going to bed. Are you coming?"

"Are you inviting?" Sherlock said archly, the corner of his mouth tipping up.

John flushed and spun away. "That's not..."

Sherlock surprised him with a deep rolling laugh.

"This is funny to you?" John whirled to face Sherlock who was suddenly standing close enough for John to feel the warmth rolling off of him. "Is this... Sherlock what are you doing?" John swallowed, then tried again, mouth suddenly too dry.

Sherlock tilted his head, staring down at John. "Do you want this?"

John swallowed again, taking a half-step back. "This is... this is a bit not good."

"Not good?" Sherlock echoed. "Eyes dilated, breath quick... But it's more than that. It has to be in the head. You have to want it. It has to be more than just desire. Do you desire me, John?" He stepped closer, touching the pads of his fingers lightly on John's collarbone.

"Wait..!" The word passed between his lips barely above a whisper.

"Do you, John Watson, desire me?"

"I thought..." he said faintly, "you didn't..."

"John. Answer the question." Sherlock's voice was husky and soft, urgent as he searched John's eyes. "I need you to answer the question."

"What do you... Sherlock, what do you want. What are you doing? I don't... I can't..."

Sherlock bent his head and brushed his lips across John's before pulling back and reading his face once more. "You need to tell me, John. I need to hear the words. I can't—I won't without the words. This is important."

John heard a shameful wordless sound come from him, and he shook his head.

"John, you are attracted to me, you are, I see it. If you want it, _tell_ me. I... want it. I want it, John." Sherlock gripped John's shoulder tightly now, eyes aglow like they were when faced with a fresh murder.

"God help me, I want it..." John finally rasped. And then found himself pushed back on the bed, Sherlock crawling on top of him. He let himself be overwhelmed by Sherlock's sudden emergence of passion before finally taking over the latter half and arching into Sherlock with a silent scream, collapsing down on top of him when Sherlock's arms gave out and he fell face first into the pillow.

Panting into the base of Sherlock's neck, he let his eyes fluttered closed.

Sherlock groaned beneath him. "Good. Are you better now?"

"Better?" John slurred. "What do you mean?"

He shifted beneath John making them both twinge where they were still connected. "You were quite out of sorts before."

"Hold on a minute..." John pushed himself up and rolled off of Sherlock's back so they both winced. "What was this about, Sherlock. You _told_ me that you're married to your work. You _told_ me that you weren't interested..."

"Don't get angry, John," Sherlock said calmly, rolling over.

"No, don't tell me not to get angry—was this all just to calm me down?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. No, it wasn't. I told you I wanted it."

"Be straight with me, Sherlock," John said tightly, his eyes fierce with anger. "What were you doing? What's your game?"

"It's no game, John," Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow. "I told you I wanted it; I didn't lie. I merely asked if you were better because sex is usually a relaxing exercise once the sweating and shouting is all finished."

John settled a bit. "So you...wanted this."

"Don't be an idiot, John. Why do you think I demanded the answer of you. You're not having regrets, are you? You've done this before. It's not like it's a new exercise. So this can't be all that much of a shock to your system."

"How—never mind." John shook his head.

"So you're alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm alright," he replied tiredly.

"Very good. Are you finished panicking? May we eat dinner and then perhaps give this another go?"

John stared at him. "What about...what about everything you told me when we first met."

"Honestly, John," Sherlock scoffed. "Is not a man allowed to change his opinion. After all, marriage to my work was contingent on the fact that nothing better had come along. Do keep up."

Lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile, John appraised his friend cum lover and nodded. "Alright then. Let's get cleaned up and then eat. I think I have an appetite now." He rolled off the bed and headed into the bathroom, bringing back a damp wash cloth and cleaning them both. He pulled on his flannels again, hearing Sherlock do the same behind him. Between the two of them, they polished off the Chinese, John relieved to see Sherlock actually eating. They ate quickly and then moved back to the bed. Sherlock's lips wrapped around his cock, John came for the second time that night and then Sherlock returned the favour by collapsing over John's back with a strangled cry.

"Sherlock," John groaned into the pillow. "Gerrof..."

Sherlock just grunted and nuzzled John's ear, breath sighing softly as he slipped into sleep.

"Jesus..." John groaned as he shifted, Sherlock still lodged inside of him. He rolled his eyes and nuzzled into the pillow to try and fall asleep.

John woke the next morning, his cock hard and Sherlock rolling his hips on top of him, sucking at the junction of his neck. He muttered some combination of incomprehensible syllables and pushed back against him, feeling Sherlock's grin against his skin.

Sherlock rolled into him, slow and lazy, hands tracing along John's skin. They finished quietly, Sherlock's arms snaking around John's torso and pulling him back flush. Rolling off, Sherlock stretched long and thin before sauntering into the bathroom. The water came on leaving John to lounge in the bed for a while longer. He finally got up and went over to start the hot water heater to make tea.

"Your turn," Sherlock said, strolling out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam, towelling his hair.

John nodded and headed into the bathroom. By the time he was out of the shower, Sherlock was dolled up as Susan. John groaned.

Flicking the top of the newspaper down, Sherlock grinned at him. "Be ready to go shortly, John. We're going for breakfast."

"What, you actually eat, now that you're getting exercise."

Sherlock arched a brow at him. "You're okay with this."

"I'm more okay now than I was yesterday. Perhaps having sex smoothed me out, yes. And," John said as he pulled on pants and then his slacks, "yes, I think I'll want to continue...this...once we get back to Baker Street."

Eyes gleaming, Sherlock gave him a nod. "Very well. I trust you'll be able to handle this today then."

"Yes. I'll be fine."

"Excellent. We'll be taking lunch at The House Solitaire. Drenkle will be dining there."

"Right. He usually treats himself the day after the funeral."

Sherlock nodded and then came over to help John once more with his buttons, leaving the top four undone. "It suits you like this."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright then. To breakfast." And they went. Susan didn't so much get under his skin this time around, now that he knew what to expect, and now that he had clearly separate pictures of Sherlock and Susan. Perhaps that had been Sherlock's goal the whole time. What with last night's activities...

"It was a convenient side effect, yes, Mattie, but it was not the main motivation," Susan said, picking at the scarf in the shop they'd stopped in to browse. They slowly moved on into another shop, Susan playing at dressing up, throwing on coats and wild hats in a resale shop and laughing to Mattie about it.

The whole thing, to John, was a bit surreal. But he didn't confuse Sherlock and Susan. Susan was incredible. And had he been so inclined, he probably could have had a relationship with a woman like Susan. But Sherlock. Sherlock was sharper, wittier, more dangerous, and amazing. So he allowed himself to be content in the company of the woman Susan who flirted and was haughty but affectionate. "Mattie, I'm hungry. Lunch?" She put back the ridiculous fur coat and then straightened the draping sweater that created the illusion of small taut breasts beneath the fabric, the scarf knotted intricately around her neck, long silver necklaces hanging down beneath the ends of the scarf. Sherlock had been blessed with a rather nice curved arse and the trousers hung off it beautifully, loose and billowing around his legs, making his hips seem wider and more feminine. John shook his head and smiled, catching up to Susan and giving her a nice goose while holding the door to the restaurant open for her. She jumped and then gave him an appraising look, managing to smirk at him before sweeping through and requesting a table for two—the main area, please.

"So what does one eat here?" John asked, flicking open the menu as the waiter stood by, clearly intimidated by Susan's looking down her nose at him and John's brusqueness.

"You must be new," she drawled. "Well, give the man his recommendation." And then smiled.

The waiter scowled and then slurred, "Our special today is the lobster pasta with lime alfredo sauce. We also have the garlic tomato and basil soup with mozzarella croutons."

"Oh, don't get that, darling; I don't want to be kissing garlic mouth for the rest of the day..." Susan said with a wave of her hand. "I'll try the pasta."

"I'll have the skirt steak," John said and handed him back the menu. He leaned across the table when the waiter had gone and took Susan's hand. "Is he here?"

She leaned forwards as well, sliding her fingers through her chin-length curls and John caught the indication over her left shoulder. "He is. Bald but young, the sharp nose and red blazer. Stands out horribly. He keeps looking at his watch,"

"Actually..." John said slowly as he gave the room a broad sweet, eyeing the man casually. "I believe he's looking at you..."

Sher—Susan blinked in surprise. "Me?" Snapped her mouth shut and then blinked. "Hm. I suppose I am now considered his 'type.'" She withdrew her hand and frowned fiercely. "Look displeased. After we finish eating—I am quite interested in the pasta, and surprisingly, I am hungry. So we shall eat first. However, if it looks like there's a rift between us, he shall stay and perhaps—"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No. You are _not_ putting yourself in harms way," John hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mattie, don't be an idiot."

"You're the one being an idiot!"

"Hush. Don't make a scene." She leaned back in her chair and sipped her water. "Storm off to the loo after you've finished eating. The food's on its way."

John shook his head. "This is a terrible idea..."

"Eat your food quickly," she murmured, smiling brightly at the waiter.

John didn't quite have to pretend to be sullen—Sherlock was pissing him off on purpose. So when he was finished, he snarled at her and then slammed his fork down and stalked off to the loo. Pausing before he rounded the bend, he saw Drenkle rise from the table and saunter over to Sherlock. Who, he knew, was capable of defending himself, but it didn't make John feel any less cautious.

Susan looked up at him, feigning surprise, laughing suddenly, lovely. She held out her hand and invited him to sit, leaning forward. If John didn't know what was going on, he would have said she was clearly interested. So after several minutes, when they left, and Drenkle had a hand on the small of Susan's back—not an easy task when she stood several inches taller than him, John slunk after them, tailing carefully. He started at the text alert going off on his phone and dug it out of his pocket.

 _Stay close. Have cuffs. Going to hotel. SH_

John watched Susan flirt and touch subtly, John knowing it was nothing to do with subtle, and everything to endear the man to her and make him follow through with his plan. John smiled grimly. Nevermind the hunter becoming hunted.

In the end, the whole affair was done much too quickly and with very little climax. Drenkle paid for a room where he would assumably pour wine and poison his victim into paralysis and then leave an hour later, victim slung around his shoulders and the bad apology that his lady friend was drunk. She would be taken back to a warehouse where he did his work and then plant the body somewhere it would be found with the most fuss.

Sherlock, of course, did not let it get that far. No sooner did they entered the room that John heard a pained shout and burst in to see Sherlock standing over the unconscious form of Drenkle, fists still raised.

"Well."

Sherlock looked at him. "Yes. Here. Cuff him. I'll text Lestrade."

"Right..." John caught the cuffs that Sherlock pulled from the handbag he had been carrying. "Honestly... I don't know how you have all of this on hand."

"They're just cuffs, John," he said, fingers tapping away at his mobile. "And I planned ahead. Obviously."

"Of course." John grunted as he dragged the body to the bathroom and cuffed him to the sink piping. He rejoined Sherlock, the man bent over a desk and scribbling. "What are you doing?"

"We're leaving."

"Okay. Yes. But what—"

"Leaving a note." He straightened and swept John out of the room, closing it firmly and tacking the note to the door.

John made a noise in his throat. "Oh Sherlock... You can't... You can't leave that..."

 _No room service. Serial killer inside. Bathroom, Lestrade. SH_

"Doesn't matter. We're leaving."

"What's the rush."

Sherlock paused in dragging him down the hall and smirked. "We're headed back to Baker Street to discover whose bed is the more comfortable."

John blinked. "Oh. Okay. I like that plan very much."

"So glad you agree," Sherlock drawled. "I very much need to get out of these blouses. They're terrible."

John laughed. "They are very fetching. You would make a fetching woman."

Sherlock hummed and pulled him out of the hotel, heading back to theirs. "Perhaps. But as you noted before, it is very much not me, and I should like to be me again."

John smiled, still chuckling. "Brilliant. Then let's go be us back at Baker Street."

"Most intelligent statement of the day," Sherlock agreed, hauling him flush and kissing him in broad daylight.

"And," John added when they'd pulled apart, "I think we'll keep the extensions a short while. I like something to hold on to."

Sherlock's eyes flew wide and then he grinned and grabbed John's hand, dragging him back to the hotel.


	3. Epilogue

There's one word that terrifies Doctor John Watson when it comes out of his partner's mouth. _Bored_. Usually in conjunction of the signifier; _I'm bored_. Sometimes in the descriptive variant of _boring_. In any incarnation, John Watson quivers when the syllables pass the consulting detective's lips.

* * *

"Oh God, Sherlock..." John came out of the bathroom and groaned seeing Sherlock pulling on a skirt that flowed loosely down to his calves. His legs looked shaved. "What are you doing _that_ for?"

Sherlock stood and fastened the skirt. "John. What day is it?"

"April 1st— _shit_. You're not." His mouth hung open. "Are you!"

Sherlock smirked. "I'm bored. And feeling devious."

John stared a minute more before the laughter bubbled up from his belly and he was bent over from it, wheezing for breath. "Les...trade...going to...die..."

"Mm. Sally Donovan as well. Anderson will _love_ me."

John grabbed the back of a chair for support.

"Come now, John. Get dressed. We're going to Scotland Yard." He pulled on a camisole and then draped the sweater around his shoulders. "Hurry up."

"We don't have a case do we?"

"No. However, I think Lestrade should meet my sister. Susan Holmes."

John was glad the t-shirt he was pulling over his head hid his face. "You're terrible."

"Not terrible, John. Bored."

"That's even worse." But he pulled on trousers anyway and straightened his hair, the action reminding him. "What about your hair?"

"It's not been cut in six months. It's long enough."

"Can I bring a camera?"

"I encourage a video recorder."

John shook his head, cheeks hurting from grinning.

* * *

The small flip recorder tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, John strolled into Scotland Yard with Susan. He was trying very hard. _Do not give me away, John. I need you to be perfectly straight-faced_. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Smiled at Susan while he held the door open.

"Thank you, John," Susan purred.

"Hello, John!" the front desk attendant said as they passed, doing a double-take at Sherlock. Susan.

Susan swept into Lestrade's office, the door banging open making Lestrade wince. "Sherlo—erm... Hello?"

Susan smiled at him. "You must be Lestrade."

"That's what my office says. I'm sorry. Do I know you? Sherlock?"

"Is my brother," Susan says, voice crooning and like sex. "Susan. A pleasure."

John shuddered.

Lestrade managed not to let the drool fall out of his open mouth and looked between Susan—who smirked—and John who grinned and gave him a sheepish shrug. "...the fuck?"

"Sherry didn't tell you about me?" Susan pouted.

"Sherry?" Lestrade echoed.

"Call him that and he'll kill you," Susan said with a grin full of teeth.

Lestrade collapsed back into his chair, looking faint.

Susan laughed. "You poor darling. Sherry running you ragged?"

"Oh God... Two Holmes..."

John bit his cheek harder.

"I don't..."

Susan perched herself on his desk, smiling. "I just came to see where it was that Sherry works. He tells me nothing, you know. You're his boss?"

Lestrade snorted, cheeks flushed. "Hardly. When he works for me, it's not really _for_ me, but rather for himself. To solve the puzzles."

"Ah yes," Susan said. "He always was a fan of puzzles."

"So then..." Lestrade cleared his throat, looking away from Susan's hint of neck, covered by a scarf. "Are you... Is Mycroft the eldest?"

"Oh yes. I'm only two years older than Sherry. Myc's five years older than I."

John laughed, turning it into a cough smoothly, affecting innocence. Mycroft would likely be horrified at the nickname. Susan smiled at him.

"Sir, I nee— _shit_!" Sally Donovan said feelingly, starting at the sight of Sherlock. "What the hell! Did you finally go ape-shit, freak?"

Susan stood quickly, smiling wryly. "You must be Donovan then."

"Sorry?"

"Erm," Lestrade said before the situation could escalate, "Sally, meet Susan Holmes. Sherlock's...elder sister."

Sally's expression of shock was about as entertaining as Lestrade's. Slightly more so because she dropped her files. John was so kind as to retrieve them for her. "Th-thanks..." she stuttered out of shock.

"You're welcome," John murmured.

"Oh my God. You're like a male Sherlock... You... You look just _like_ him. This is... This is—Anderson!" She leaned out the door and shouted her partner's name.

Skidding into the room, Anderson stopped short and stared.

Susan glided over and held out a hand. "Anderson. Susan. Holmes. A pleasure." She gave him a brilliant smile.

Anderson hesitated, flicked a look around the room, and then smiled back as he shook her hand.

"There's a chap," she cooed, patting the back of his hand.

John saw the moment it all changed when Anderson snatched back his hand and stared at her with something akin to awe. He could only imagine Sherlock's inner glee.

"So you're..."

"Older. Only two years, darling." She smiled and then whirled away.

"Did you want to... go to lunch?" Anderson asked, looking surprised that he'd asked.

Susan laughed, the sound charming, even more so when she noticed Donovan's fierce glare. "Aren't you forward! I'm sorry." She came back and pecked Anderson on the cheek.

John shuddered.

"Sorry?" Anderson said in a daze.

"Yes, darling. I've already got a date with John."

"John?" He cried incredulously.

John choked back his own reply, settling for a smile.

"So...where _is_ Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, frowning at John.

Susan waved a hand and made a tsking noise. "He's off doing something for Myc that he doesn't want to do."

"Really?" Mycroft drawled at the doorway.

Susan looked over at him and smiled, holding out her hands. "There's my big brother!"

John suddenly felt this wasn't funny any longer.

Lestrade looked confused, Sally furious, and Anderson smitten.

Kissing him on both cheeks, Susan stepped out of arm's reach and smiled.

Mycroft smiled.

John felt like disappearing.

"Right!" Lestrade said loudly. "Well, um... When he gets back, we _could_ use his help on a case."

"Excellent!" Susan said, eyes sharpening on the DI. "What are the particulars."

"Sherlock—" Mycroft began.

"Isn't here, Myc, so I can easily handle it."

"Susan..." John said softly, as much to the elder Holmes as to Sherlock. This was going too far.

But she opened the file Lestrade handed to her, and scanned it quickly.

" _Susan_. There are some things that we should talk about..." Mycroft said quietly. "Such as your recent escape from that prison in Asia?"

Susan blinked and the scowled fiercely. "You _do_ know how to spoil a good joke, don't you..."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"What?" Lestrade found himself with the file stuffed into his hands and a face full of Susan. She grinned at him. "See you later, Detective. Don't miss me while I'm gone."

John huffed at his sudden cherry-red face and let himself be dragged out after Sherlock and Mycroft.

* * *

Sherlock dragged him back to Scotland Yard early the next morning. John had, of course, wanted to stay home. The whole thing spelled disaster, especially when Sherlock had that _look_ in his eyes.

It started out well. It really did. Sherlock breezed in the doors, nodded to Sally with a smug grin and then waltzed into Lestrade's office, rifling through the papers to pull out the file he'd been looking at yesterday. "It'll be done today," he told Lestrade through the man's spluttering.

"Oi! Freak!" Anderson shouted, picking up on Sally's favourite insult. "Why'd you hide away a sister like that?"

John groaned. It was over. It was all over.

Sherlock slunk towards Anderson, grinning. Anderson shrank back, but found himself against the wall. "Oh Anderson..." he said in the same tones as Susan. "You really are an insufferable idiot..." And then straightened and swept out through the absolutely floored gazes that followed him.

"Merciful God..." Lestrade whimpered.

"I know..." John said softly, patting the man's shoulder and then loping after Sherlock. So much for secrets kept... The reaction footage would at least be just as entertaining.


End file.
